I drift inside my own echo, small as a thought caught in a quiet storm, the sounds of yesterday unfold like dreams heard in sleep's edge.
The clock whispers nothings, ticking with almonds but tasted with dusk—they sing lullabies to empty walls.
Shadows wrestle in the corner where they breathe sighs caught from laughter's forgotten importance.
Winged echoes bounce off surfaces untouched for ages,
defragments of voices filled with longing and deep content.
Static lullabies wrap around the mind like warm, invisible blankets—remembering the unheard.
This celestial scene swings like a pendulum,
a vast unsung aria dancing in synchronized disarray.
And I, but a note—
Let every caress of silence ripple into eternity: Echo of Dreams, Forgotten Songs.
Transitioning into hues unseen as the invisible guitar strums stars into daylight.